


5-4-3-2-1

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ARE YOU HAPPY NOW SANA, M/M, Nightmares, anxiety attack, h/c with an emphasis on the c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:33:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7547938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve can't sleep.<br/>Neither can Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5-4-3-2-1

**Author's Note:**

> 5-word prompt: "How about a hug, hm?"

Steve awoke with a flinch, flailing as he fought to free his sheet-entangled limbs. His chest heaved as he extricated himself from the blanket burrito he’d inadvertently wrapped himself in, heart racing from the nightmare that he’d awakened from. Steve tried to force the images out of his mind, grinding his hands across his eyes like he erase them by rubbing hard enough. Still, the picture persisted, Bucky lying on the ground with a neat hole in his head, eyes wide and pleading. Steve gasped for air, his throat feeling small and closed the way it used to when he still got asthma attacks. He felt like he was floating in the ocean, a small speck against a wide backdrop of hysteria.

_5-4-3-2-1_ _game_ , a small voice in the back of his head reminded him. _Play the game_. Steve breathed out, trying to remember the grounding technique SHIELD had taught him when he’d first woken up.

 _Five things I can see_ , he thought. _My hands._ He looked to the side where Bucky usually lay, only to find it empty. _The bed. The lamp. The alarm clock._ _One more_...He squinted a little in the darkness of the room. _The door_. Bucky had probably left it open when he exited, in order not to disturb Steve. Bucky’s sleep was even worse than Steve’s, and he often went on walks or to the weight room in order to cope.

Steve breathed in deep, measured breaths. He was starting to feel better, but his heart rate was still far higher than normal. 

_ Four things I can feel _ .  _ The pillow behind me _ . Steve swung his feet over the side of the bed, curling his toes on the carpet.  _ The carpet underneath me.  _ He shivered slightly.  _ The sweat on my skin _ .  _ And the cold air from the vent _ . Standing up, Steve stretched, still continuing to breathe deeply. He probably wasn’t going to go back to sleep, not with the way images from his nightmare were still flashing before his eyes. Steve padded across the small bedroom and into the small corridor.

_ Three things I can hear _ .  _ My breath. The air conditioning _ . One thing that hadn’t changed about New York was the brutally hot summers, although they were a lot more bearable now that Steve could afford air conditioning, and get ice from the freezer. A small clank distracted him, and he whipped his head towards a light shining under the crack of the weight room door.  _ Bucky, working out _ . 

Steve pushed the door open cautiously, trying not to startle Bucky. Even after he’d been deprogrammed, sudden noises still left Bucky on edge. Back then, Steve would’ve called it shell-shock. SHIELD called it PTSD. 

“Hey, Buck,” he said softly. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, setting his weights back on the rack. The SHIELD psychiatrists actively encouraged the pair to work out their issues via physical activity. Sometimes it felt like somebody was always occupying their designated weight room, but honestly, Steve didn’t mind. There were still days where he was in awe of what his body could do, performing feats that he had only dreamed of before. 

“A bad one?” Bucky asked, interrupting Steve’s train of thought. Steve nodded. 

“5-4-3-2-1?” Bucky knew the game as well, having learned it while he was in hiding from the rest of the world. “Which one are you on?”

“Two.” 

Bucky made a face. “Two’s always hard.” He extended his arm, turning to face Steve. “How ‘bout a hug, huh?” 

Steve nodded again, pulling Bucky close and burrowing his face in the joint between Bucky’s neck and shoulder.  _ Bucky’s sweat. The oil in his prosthetic _ . 

“I got two,” he whispered, tears threatening to form in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Buck, it’s just-”

“Hey,” Bucky soothed, running his hand over Steve’s back. “I know how it is, remember?”

Steve nodded into Bucky’s tshirt, his heart race starting to ease. 

“Just one more,” whispered Bucky. “You gotta do the one, it’s the most important.”

_ One good thing that I know _ . This was the stage that always gave Steve trouble. “I saved the world” didn’t feel like a good answer any more, not with the chaos of the past few years. His doctors encouraged him to think smaller, focus on having distinct goals. But tonight, Steve knew his good thing.

“You love me,” Steve murmured. “And I love you.”

“That’s right, Stevie.” Bucky’s hand kept moving across Steve’s back, small soothing circles of warmth. “Doing better?”

Steve made an affirmative noise, his arms still wrapped around the other man. The steady beat of Bucky’s heart, combined with the rise and fall of his chest, were reassuring rhythms against Steve’s own panic. He pulled out of the hug, but let his forehead rest against Bucky’s. 

“Better,” he breathed. He walked to the center of the weight room, where a small area had been cleared. “Want to spar?”

“Sure.” Bucky grinned, rolling his shoulder where his prosthesis was attached. “Loser makes breakfast?” 

“Deal.”

They quickly fell into an easy rhythm, dancing back and forth across the mat, kicks and punches flying through the air like swallows. Weaving through the blows, Steve could feel his troubled dreams slipping away like shed skin as the fight thrummed through his veins. He felt the mat beneath his feet, heard the small noise of exertion Bucky made as he threw a punch, smelled the chalk on his hands. These were things he knew. These were the things he loved.  


End file.
